


logic is the syllogism

by lacrimalis



Series: broken flower chains [1]
Category: Kipo and the Age of Wonderbeasts (Cartoon)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, I'm, I'm Not Tagging The Billions Boys As "Good" And "Bad", Origin Story, Rad Sechrist Why Did You Name Them That, TF Do You Mean "Bad Billions", They're Both "Bad"???, We Don’t Abide Color-Coded Morality Here Lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:41:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24880987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacrimalis/pseuds/lacrimalis
Summary: ‘Billions’ is less of a name and more of a title.
Relationships: Black Blazer Billions & White Blazer Billions
Series: broken flower chains [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1860778
Comments: 10
Kudos: 88





	logic is the syllogism

Billions does not recall his childhood in much detail. 

He is an orphan, but that isn't saying much. In a mute-eat-mute world, that's more common than the alternative: a hearth and home, a pair of mate-bonded parents, a litter of siblings who aren't liable to rip your throat out over a scrap of meat.

(That Billions even _has_ such preconceptions about the life he might have led sans orphancy is illogical. Orphancy does not lend itself well to the establishment of such ideas, and yet his are firm and resolute. It is the one illogicality he allows himself. He makes up for this shortcoming by devoting his life to logic in all other regards.)

He is, categorically, part of the Newton Wolves' pack, and it takes a village he supposes, but he does not know his parents. It is unlikely he can discover who sired him through processes of elimination, either: all the wolves of mating age in his pack’s territorial purview have darker fur than he does, and while he still has much to learn about genetics, he is given to understand that lighter colorations in mammals tend to be recessive traits. It is not completely out of the question that two of them might share this recessive trait, thus resulting in the unlikely _him_ – but if that were the case, Billions would expect to see considerably more pups who share his light fur coat. More than _none,_ at any rate. And he does not.

Summarily, he puts the question of his parentage from his mind.

–

‘Billions’ is less of a name and more of a title.

When he rises to prominence in his pack and demonstrates his aptitude for science and reason, he is matched by only one other pack mate. The process of selecting a new leader is a competitive intellectual crucible, consisting of one part trivia, one part debate and, because it would be illogical to exclude their natural talents, one part hunt.

Customarily the points would be tallied up, each event given commensurate weight according to its relevance in the eyes of the pack. But when the runners-up have been eliminated there are two finalists, and no events remain to remove all doubt as to who is worthier of the position. The pack descends into a heated argument, unsure of how to break the tie.

Historically, it has been a vote. Or a trial by combat, depending on the pack’s mood. The frenzy of close competition has riled them up enough that Billions suspects they will settle on the latter.

Billions, who is not yet Billions, fixes his rival with a smile. His pack has made no secret of their mistrust and prejudice: where did he come from? Why his pale and unusual coat? Why his composure, his guileless smile? He suspects that whatever event they decide on, it will be rigged in his rival's favor.

Perhaps by overcoming their treachery and winning regardless, Billions will finally put their gossip and disrespect to rest, having proven himself more canny and cunning than all of them.

It is not illogical to _hope_ for an unlikely outcome, Billions consoles himself. Pitiable, maybe.

"May the better wolf win," he tells his rival, hand outstretched in offering.

His rival accepts the offered hand and grins back, and says, "Naturally."

–

Billions' rival accosts him in his substandard living quarters in the ungodly twilit hours of the morning. If he intends to sabotage Billions by disturbing his rest, he has miscalculated. Billions hasn't been able to sleep for hours.

Billions perches his glasses on his muzzle when he goes to answer the door, and his rival blinks at the unfamiliar sight of the gold frames. His surprise is understandable. Billions has weathered the mockery that comes with wearing them in the presence of others, and has deemed the slight handicap of diminished sight preferable to giving his pack any more excuses to bother him.

Billions steps aside in silent invitation, and his rival inspects the cramped room with a critical eye as he steps inside. Judging by his expression, he must find it lacking. It's not as if it can be helped. Billions is universally disliked, and has always had to make do with less.

"Come to eliminate the competition?" Billions asks as he closes the door. He is not threatened by his rival, but if things come to blows no doubt the pack will place the blame squarely on him, despite all evidence to the contrary. It would be a terrible inconvenience. 

Mercifully, however, his rival is unpracticed in the dissembly and deceit upon which Billions relies for survival. His body language and demeanor communicates with strikingly honest clarity his inner thoughts and feelings, and at the moment he appears calm and untroubled.

"No," his rival says with a grimace, as if offended by the impugnation of his sportsmanship. His voice is lightly accented, with what Billions doesn't know. Rough living, perhaps. "Just making sure you got the same information I did, regarding our tie-breaker."

That _is_ surprisingly sportsmanlike of him – if it can be credited. "And how am I to know you won't deliberately misinform me?"

From an inside pocket of his blazer, his rival produces an envelope with the distinctive wax seal of the competition organizers.

The seal is unbroken.

"Why wouldn't you," Billions says, and does not complete the thought. It is uncharacteristic of him, to be at a loss for words.

"I know everyone thinks you're strange," says his rival, which prompts a frown from Billions Who Is Not Yet Billions at the rudely voiced, worst-kept secret in the pack. "I want to ensure that if I win, it's because I earned it. Not because of our pack's prejudices."

… His rival anticipated foul play. He would have no reason to suspect it without putting himself in Billions' shoes, nor any reason to disrupt it unless he respected Billions as a worthy adversary. Moreover, he had anticipated that Billions would be too shrewd and guarded to accept assistance at face value, and it is for this reason he left the seal unbroken.

They would learn what his instructions said at precisely the same moment.

It is a truly remarkable gesture of empathy and kindness, from one who stands to lose everything by keeping Billions informed.

Billions clears his throat and fetches his own instructions from the bedside table. "Let's compare notes, then, shall we?"

They stand in the center of Billions' shabby room and open the envelope, unfolding its contents with a quiet rustle of paper. The times and locations are identical, and Billions takes a moment to appreciate the fact that his perfidious pack does not think him so foolish as to be disqualified by not showing up at all. That trick has worn out its welcome, and Billions is well-apprised of its tells.

There is, however, one crucial difference between them.

Billions' instructions read, _Fight to surrender._

His rival's read, _Fight to the death._

Billions takes a deep breath and entrusts the damning letters to his rival's hands, retreating to the bed to sit and absorb the weight of this betrayal. He removes his glasses and rubs the space between his eyes. Billions does not lack faith in his ability to defend his own life, when needs must. But a fight to surrender is different from a fight to the death, in enough subtle ways that the discrepancy would likely have been missed by both of them, but which would have nonetheless caused Billions to make a fatal error.

"I suppose the title is yours, then," says Billions wearily. "That is as good as a vote."

His rival snarls, "If they wanted a vote, they had their chance to say so!" He stomps over to the bedside table, and Billions' hackles rise – but it is only to slap down the letters to emphatically punctuate what he says next: "They were trying to make me kill you."

Billions says dryly, "That _is_ rather the point of a fight to the death.”

"But _you_ wouldn't have been fighting for your life." His rival begins to pace the room, a comical effort considering its meager dimensions. Billions does not understand the other wolf's outrage. This benefits him.

"That is also rather the point, I should think," Billions says, his mouth twitching into a smile at his rival's antics. "I have grown accustomed to it."

"You shouldn't _have_ to!"

This is a sentiment Billions hasn't allowed himself to indulge in a long time. It sits uneasily in his chest, this acknowledgement of how _unfair_ his life has been up to this point. "And what would you have me do?" he asks bitterly. "If I kill you tonight–" His rival looks aghast at the mere suggestion, like he thinks this early morning convocation has made them staunch and unshakeable allies against the pack's deceit–"then my own instructions could be held up as evidence of my unnecessary escalation."

"But _my_ instructions–"

"The seal is broken," Billions interrupts. "Furthermore, the competition's organizer is undoubtedly involved. Alternative instructions could be easily fabricated to suit their purposes." Begrudgingly, Billions is impressed. He would either die, making his rival the de facto leader, or Billions would kill him and be excommunicated for disrespecting the spirit of the competition. It's quite ingenious, really.

He's only sorry he was too optimistic to see it coming, that he might prepare some sort of countermeasure.

His rival drops heavily beside him on the bed, and Billions blinks and stares at him, perplexed. He cannot remember the last time he enjoyed such close proximity with a member of his pack – not unless it involved threats of violence, or attempts to intimidate.

His rival stares at his hands and says, with the measured intensity of one taking great pains to put a leash on his anger, "I don't take kindly to being tricked."

Billions huffs in wry amusement. He can't imagine what that's like. "Well, I'll likely forfeit, and when you're pack leader you can do whatever you want with the conspirators."

His rival stares at him in gobsmacked appall. "You can't _forfeit,"_ he insists. "They only did this because they thought you would win. _You_ deserve to be the pack leader, if either of us does."

Billions feels unaccountably warmed by his rival's assessment. But he cannot set aside the facts. "Somehow I doubt our pack shares that sentiment. My forfeiting is the only solution."

There is a long quiet between them, during which Billions stews in resignation, and his rival, he expects, begins to accept the reality of the situation.

Until he says, "It's not the only solution."

–

Billions’ rival makes all the necessary arrangements with the competition organizers. They favor him, after all, and if they think he is attempting a ruse of his own they are likely to accommodate him. Billions is somewhat endeared by his rival’s repeated failures to school his expression and anger, as he is coaching the other wolf for the meeting. His outrage is palpable, and it is all on Billions’ behalf.

The pack assembles in the auditorium, and Billions and his rival take the stage. Many of the pack perk up in excitement, no doubt expecting the scheduled fight. Some of them look confused, and others, incriminatingly unnerved.

With his glasses perched proudly on his muzzle, Billions identifies them with ease.

“It has come to our attention,” his rival announces, “that some of you are not interested in respecting the spirit of this competition.”

They produce the envelopes with their instructions in unison, and drop them to the stage floor. Between them they reveal the plot and identify the perpetrators, in a summation gathering worthy of detective novels of centuries past.

“Without our combined intellect, we might never have discovered the traitors in our midst,” Billions says. “To that end, we defer to the old adage of ‘two heads are better than one’. Which is to say…”

“We will _both_ be pack leaders,” his partner announces. “Billions…”

“… And Billions.”

“Any objections?”

The apprehended conspirators sitting bound and dismayed punctuate the question more dangerously than any explicit threat could possibly hope to. The rest of the pack shakes their head in vehement denial.

Billions and Billions smile, satisfied. “Good.”

There have been many Billions before them, and there will be many afterward. It is unprecedented for there to be two at once, but they are nothing if not pioneers. They will pave the way for change, and the pack will follow.

Let knowledge be their prey.


End file.
